Remembering
by turtur6
Summary: "It occurred to him that he and his friend may just have decided to sleep on the floor because they were too tired to find a decent bedroom." Slash, existential smut.


**Remembering**

**A/N: Started as a way to**** get some of my more dirty writing impulses out before NaNoWriMo, became a way to warm up when I was writing a paper on R/G Are Dead for a class on Shakespeare I was in last semster. Kind of awkward because I sometimes forgot which was which.**

**Warnings: Some sexual situations, existentialism.**

**Summary: ****"A short, blunt human pyramid…?"**

One thing they didn't tell you, Rosencrantz thought as he tried to sleep– well, _they_ didn't actually tell you _anything_ but this was something he would have thought people would at least drop hints about– was that Denmark was cold. Cold as… bloody well cold, anyway. This fact, combined with the chill of a black night and having to sleep on one's own doublet upon stone that may well have been ice in a cunning disguise, was keeping him from moving to his next act. As it were.

He had considered, in his first hour of insomnia, sneaking out to find a blanket, or a curtain, or an animal skin to wrap himself in. Then he figured that, this being a castle, the corridors would all be under heavy guard. Then again, he hadn't actually seen any guards yet. He felt, however, that if he tried to leave the chamber he was in there probably would be guards. It was that kind of day. Days?

"Guildenstern?"

He whispered a name into the frigid air, hoping someone would respond.

"Mph."

"Rosencrantz?"

"MPH."

Rosencrantz- Guildenstern?- bit his lip and threw his arms out to find the candlestick he remembered his friend setting beside their makeshift bedding before he had blown it out and put away in his rucksack- oh.

As he waited for his eyes to adjust do he could accost his resting friend, he wondered why Hamlet would make them sleep in such desolate quarters. Then again- _had_ it been Hamlet? It occurred to him that he and his friend may just have decided to sleep on the floor because they were too tired to find a decent bedroom. However, it was just as likely that Hamlet, in his apparent madness, had instructed them to remain in this chamber. It didn't bear any more thinking about, anyway.

"Guil…"

His friend's voice came from out of the gradually decreasing gloom. He perked up, but didn't respond, unsure of whether his name was being called.

"Rosencrantz!"

"Yes!" Rosencrantz responded, ever dutiful.

He could dimly see a face before him, and he reached for it instinctively. His fingertips felt stubble, chapped lips slightly parted for breath in the cold air, a pointed chin.

"Guildenstern," he breathed, happiness and relief flooding his body. He relaxed, though he hadn't realized he'd ever been tense, and crawled over to his friend. When he could feel Guildenstern's warmth against his palms again, he stopped, seeking his face again with his squinting eyes.

"What're you- Rosencrantz."

Guildenstern sounded like he was rolling his eyes. A moment later there was the crack of a match against stone and— what do you know, he _was_ rolling his eyes!

The other man set down the candle with a clink as the candlestick balanced itself. Wouldn't do to have a fire, after all. They have a play to put on in the morning.

Rosencrantz, having forgotten what Guildenstern looked like aside from the hazy outline of a face with a bit of beard and a coin spinning, reflected in eyes of a colour that had escaped him, stared at his friend's face with a look of deep concentration.

The first thing he noticed was that Guildenstern was ginger. This pleased Rosencrantz, who had until that point thought he had never known any redheaded people. The next things he catalogued were his eyes, dark and piercing, questioning him, and the sardonic smirk playing on his lip as Guildenstern watched his friend commit his features to memory. His hair was unkempt, unwashed, short and shaggy. It looked nice, though. Soft.

Guildenstern's eyebrows furrowed, his lips twisting into a frown. "Er, Rosencrantz?"

"Hm? What's wrong?" Rosencrantz gazed into his friend's fierce hazel eyes.

Guildenstern inclined his head upwards. Rosencrantz looked to the ceiling. When he looked back, Guildenstern was glowering at him.

"Your hand."

Rosenrantz realized, with a start of embarrassment, that he had been absently stroking the back of Guildenstern's head during this whole exchange.

"Oh, uh, sorry."

Rosencrantz didn't move his hand. He stared at it as if it was foreign to his body. He could not remember putting it there.

Guildenstern, rolling his eyes again, swept him up into a kiss, throwing his thin arms round him and clutching their torsos together.

Rosencrantz hadn't remembered this either, but he supposed that they must have done this before, because it felt good. It felt right.

Destiny. The word came to his mind for some reason. He wasn't sure if he liked it.

He clutched Guildenstern's head, fingers weaving through the thin strands of choppy, reddish hair that grew from it. Guildenstern's mouth was pressed to his, hot and moist. His chin was rough with beard. Rosencrantz moved his head to the side slightly, angling to get the feel of his counterpart's lips better. Guildenstern's hands were on his back, fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders, stroking and massaging. Someone, Rosencrantz wasn't sure who, opened his mouth and deepened the kiss, pushing their tongue in between the other's teeth and pulling it back slowly, tantalizingly.

Guildenstern tasted like tomatoes and stale bread, and like the woods somehow, and whatever men were supposed to taste like. He was slow, tender, almost condescending with his kisses. Rosencrantz didn't mind. He was better in support anyway. The auburn haired man made a happy, impulsive sound- not a mewl exactly, more like a chirrup.

"Rosencrantz!" Guildenstern lightly hit the back of his friend's head but pressed their foreheads together, smiling to make it clear that he wasn't angry.

Rosencrantz caught up his friend's mouth again, sucking on his top lip, licking the sweat off his scruffy jaw. Guildenstern was by now panting slightly. His grip was tight on the back of Rosencrantz's jacket, and he had gotten onto his knees for better mobility. This drew Rosencrantz up, up to his knees too, and they were kneeling, growing closer and closer, waiting for their bodies to finally touch.

**And then it's simply a matter of words and grammar and prose.**

They touch and they spiral out of control, looping circles around each other like aeroplanes, except aeroplanes haven't been invented yet so they're just gasping into each other's mouths, trying to push up against each other as hard as they can because they can't remember how it feels to love someone and they _want to know_.

Someone knocks the candle over and it goes out carefully, and it's all dark because, times being what they are, most audiences aren't quite comfortable with this sort of thing.

**but if you wanted to know what it was like, Rosencrantz is tossing Guildenstern's thick leather belt across the room with abandon and Guildenstern is struggling with the buttons of Rosencrantz's flies and Rosencrantz has his head thrown back as Guildenstern comforts him, mouth so hot and so wet, and Guildenstern is being the dominant personality and their fingers are tightly knit together as their clothes make a bed effective enough for at least one activity, and Rosencrantz is crying out, almost feeling it, **_**almost**_** and Guildenstern is Rosencrantz is Guildenstern is Rosencrantz is Guildenstern and Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead**

And in the morning, when the sun is out (does it rise in the East? Oh well, they'll find out eventually) and the players are all stirring and waking, Rosencrantz wakes up, warm from the heat generated by his sleeping companion, and he smiles because he thinks he might remember who this is, sooner or later.

**Fin**


End file.
